One Death at a Time

by Abbi Waxman

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

“Abbi Waxman is both irreverent and thoughtful.”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Emily Giffin

A cranky former actress teams up with her Gen Z sobriety sponsor to solve the murder that threatens to send her back to prison in this dazzling new mystery novel from the USA Today bestselling author of The Bookish Life of Nina Hill.

When Julia Mann, a bad-tempered ex-actress and professional thorn in the side of authority, runs into Natasha Mason at an AA meeting, it’s anything but a meet-cute. Julia just found a dead body in her swimming pool, and the cops say she did it (she already went to jail for murder once, so now they think she’s making a habit of it). Mason is eager to clear Julia’s name and help keep her sober, but all Julia wants is for Mason to leave her alone.

As their investigation ranges from the Hollywood Hills to the world of burlesque to the country clubs of Palm Springs, this unconventional team realizes their shared love of sarcasm and poor life choices are proving to be a powerful combination. Will secrets from their past trip them up, or will their team of showgirls, cat burglars, and Hollywood agents help them stay one step ahead? Are dead piranhas, false noses, and a giant martini glass important clues or simply your typical day in Los Angeles? And will they manage to solve the crime before they kill each other, or worse, fall off the wagon? Trying to keep it simple and take it easy is one thing—trying to find a murderer before they kill again is a whole other program.

Release date: April 15, 2025

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 400

Sample

1

Mason watched from her position on the floor as the facilitator came to her defense.

"I realize you were triggered by Mason's share, Jim, but fire is never the answer," said the woman firmly, moving the large man most of the way across the room simply by wafting him with her clipboard. He would try and stand his ground every few steps, maybe even mount a counteroffensive, but she would double-time her wrist action, and apparently the breeze in his eyelashes was more than he could handle. "We respect your right to self-expression, but not in the medium of flame." She frowned and pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. "Please take a seat until you can compose yourself. I don't want to ask you to leave Group, but I will."

Mason watched Jim carefully until she was sure he wasn't going to come at her again. Then she looked at Sherri, the facilitator, reassured by her still-mellow affect. She trusted Sherri, despite the fact she was the only nonaddict in this particular room and had her hair in one of those messy buns Mason envied. Admittedly, unlike most "normies," Sherri had seen and heard things that would make a walrus shudder, and those are some implacable motherfuckers. Running a 12-step facility is not a job for the fainthearted, and this evening had tested Sherri's self-possession as well as Mason's instincts for self-preservation. But Mason went back to stomping out embers, confident Sherri had it under control. The meeting, not the fire. The fire was her department.

Group had been going relatively normally until Jim had pulled out his lighter and set fire to a handful of helpful (and flammable) pamphlets, and several group participants had had to stamp them out. Mason had been the first and the only one with really appropriate footwear. But to Sherri's experienced eye, this was just a minor conflagration and no one's worst Thursday night by a long shot. Still, manners matter, so Sherri added, "And you owe Mason an apology."

Mason laughed loudly. "I'm on your tenth step every night lately, Jim."

The large man narrowed his eyes. "No, Mason, you're not."

"I should be," she replied, reaching to take a roll of paper towel from a guy who'd returned from the janitor's closet with a broom and a glittering, rustling string of black trash bags. "Thanks, Dave." Dave nodded but said nothing. He was a man of deep thoughts but few words.

"Well, you're not," Jim said again, truculently. For a sober person, someone in recovery, a tenth step is a daily list of things that might have been better left unsaid, things better left undone, and things you might want to say sorry for. Jim wasn't a big apologizer, and his daily inventory was usually just a list of people he wanted to punch in the ear. He'd been lying: Mason made that list almost every day.

Natasha Mason was an unusually pretty woman of twenty-five with extremely short hair and striking features that might have been overwhelming had they been paired with a more elaborate hairstyle. It wasn't her looks that rubbed Jim the wrong way; it was every other thing about her. He narrowed his eyes and watched her squat down with a wad of paper towels in each hand, circle-wiping the burnt paper mess into a pile, then scoop-lifting it into the trash bag the other guy was holding open. As she got low to the ground several people averted their gaze from the lower back tattoo her position revealed, while others fell silent and stared. Jim couldn't see it from where he was, so dodged the bullet that was moral judgment. Each to his own.

While this was going on, the door to the room opened and a woman entered and silently absorbed the sight of a small funeral pyre surrounded by chairs. Another woman might have hesitated, maybe turned and walked away, but this woman merely raised an eyebrow and stalked a wide and elegant circle. The little people would do what the little people did, regardless of her input, so she let them get on with it. As long as they stayed at least an arm's length away, she had no fucks to give them.

As she took a seat, Mason turned and looked at her, her own eyebrows drawn in her habitual first expression: No, thanks. The newcomer was maybe sixty, possibly a few years in either direction, and exquisitely dressed and coiffed. She was wearing a long, flowing, brightly patterned dress (vintage Ossie Clark), white boots that laced up the front (vintage Beth Levine) and carrying a small, square purse (knockoff Gucci Jackie bag bought on Melrose for twenty bucks). Her body balanced on the folding chair as though it were a well-stuffed chaise lounge, her crossed legs scaffolding the fabric of her dress like the model she might once have been. She looked remarkably comfortable, but wore an expression of extreme sufferance. Mason was used to that, though she'd never seen anyone look quite so ornamental and cranky simultaneously. She became aware that the energy in the room had changed, and looked at some of the more familiar faces. They knew this woman, she could tell that much, even though she herself had never seen her before. And not only knew her, but . . . something she couldn't put her finger on. She looked back at the woman, who was now looking at her with an expression that suggested Mason was blocking her view. Of what, Mason wasn't sure; there was nothing to look at now the fire was out.

Sherri coughed and looked at the clipboard, not that it had anything to offer. "Welcome to Group. I'm Sherri. You are . . . ?"

"Julia," the woman replied, her voice deep and clear and maple syrup smooth. "I have a court card that needs to be signed."

Again, Mason was aware of a change of energy. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Sherri nodded. "I'll take care of it at the end"-she looked around-"for you and anyone else who needs it." A guy at the other end of the circle sheepishly half raised his hand, and she nodded to let him know she saw him. "Mason, why don't you take your seat now you've finished saving us all from a fiery death, or at least the inconvenience of having to evacuate the room?" Then she turned back to the older woman, who was carefully looking everywhere but at her. "Julia, why don't you tell us a little about yourself and why you're here?"

Mason sat back down, but in a different chair so she could keep an eye on Jim and on this new woman. She was less certain with every moment that passed that she hadn't seen her before. It was that kind of face. Maybe she'd seen her in meetings; that was a distinct possibility.

"I'd rather not," the older woman replied. "I've been sober before. I know the drill." She waved her court card. "I went out . . . and now I have to come back." Her tone was polite but managed to convey it had a use-by date that was fast approaching. Whoever this woman was, she had the ability to express a lot by saying very little, and Mason studied her, mentally cataloging what she saw. It was traditional not to judge other people in recovery, but it was also human to do it with big fat bells on. Mason was nothing if not human.

Sherri nodded. "Alright," she said affably, turning away. 'Going out' meant relapse, and relapse was part of being an addict; only a lucky few get sober and stay sober the rest of their lives. Most people struggle hard, going in and out of sobriety with varying degrees of commitment and success. In that way they are no different than people joining gyms in January or starting diets in March-this time it's going to be different. Nobody cares. Everyone's trying. And everyone in that room had the one day they were sitting in, and the wise ones were grateful for it.

Sherri had seen it all. She looked at the sheepish guy. "This is also your first time in Group. Would you like to share?"

He blushed, and nodded. "My name is Andrew, I'm an alcoholic, and I'm here because I drove into a house."

A bubble of laughter went around the room, bouncing on nodding heads and smiles of recognition. Andrew looked surprised, but then shrugged. "I wasn't aiming for the house, I was aiming for the carport, but Jim Beam was my copilot and his eye was off by about six feet." He grinned suddenly. "Luckily, my wife and kids already dumped my sorry ass and moved out, so I just trashed the car, pissed off the cat and woke the neighbors. They called the police." He looked around the circle, seeing no judgment. "They've been waiting for their moment, ever since I peed on their dog by accident." He paused. "I thought it was their doormat." He paused again. "It's not a very bulky dog." Deep breath. "This is day thirty-four for me, and it's sucking pretty hard."

He fell silent, then added, "Thanks for letting me share."

Everyone murmured their thanks, then Sherri looked over at Jim, who'd leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He wasn't fooling anyone.

"Jim, would you like to come back to the circle?"

Jim shook his head without opening his eyes.

"Oh, come on, Jim," said Mason. "Come back to the circle."

Jim pouted. "No cross talk."

She tipped her head, setting one earful of silver earrings dangling. "That wasn't cross talk. Cross talk is commenting on someone else's share, offering unsolicited advice or interrupting." She looked at the leader. "Right, Sherri?"

Sherri nodded. "Yes, and also this is a recovery support group, not specifically a recognized AA or other program meeting, so the rules are a little different." She smiled warmly. "Insofar as there are any rules, rather than just suggestions. This is a safe space, remember." She made an encompassing hand gesture. "We all bring the energy we wish to share and receive."

Jim rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to bitch further, when Julia suddenly spoke.

"Wait, this isn't a regular AA meeting?"

Sherri shook her head. "Yes and no. This is a 12-step recovery meeting, but we have members from many programs." She gestured around at the room itself. "This is a treatment facility, and AA doesn't lend its name to any related outside enterprises; it's one of the traditions."

"Well, fuck," said Julia, getting to her feet. "Then this is a waste of my time; you can't sign my card."

Sherri nodded. "No, it's fine, this meeting was on the list the court gave you, which is how you found us."

Julia started walking. "I found you because you were happening at the right time. There wasn't a lot more detail on the list. Whoever compiled it didn't have a lot of energy to either share or receive." She slowed and looked at Sherri. "So you can sign my card?"

Sherri nodded. "Of course. Why don't you sit back down and tell us what happened?"

Julia frowned at her, then around the circle of people, none of whom said anything. She even looked over at Jim, but he was still pretending to be asleep. The smell of burnt paper and coffee still lingered, but when Julia sat down-in a different chair this time-Mason got a hint of Chanel No. 5 and the unmistakable smell of wealth.

"Nothing happened." She shrugged and looked down at her boots, bouncing up and down as she flexed her ankle. She hadn't fully come to rest yet, and Mason, who was close enough to hear the leather squeaking, noticed the moment when she finally got comfortable and settled into a pose she was willing to hold for a while. Mason had more energy than her body could contain and admired anyone who could hold their outsides steady for longer than twenty seconds.

"Yet here you are." Sherri might look like she breathed in rainbows and breathed out unicorns, but she was nobody's fool. "It might have felt like nothing to you, but it was enough of a something to get you into the court system."

"The police made a mistake."

Laughter around the room.

Julia frowned. "No, really. I should have refused the Breathalyzer."

An observer might have thought the wave of shrugs had been choreographed and rehearsed, but they would have been wrong. The crowd had just heard this shit a hundred times before.

Jim chimed in from across the room. "You could've, but California has implied consent, so cops can ask and a refusal looks like shit. Better to blow and take the risk." His tone was weary and experienced, as was he. "Unless of course you know for sure you'll fail . . ." He looked at Julia. "Let me guess: Too drunk to drive, but sober enough to think you could get away with it."

"Now that's cross talk," muttered Mason. Jim looked at her and she held up her palms. "Rigorous honesty, baby."

Jim got to his feet. "Don't call me baby." He looked agitated. "Mind your boundaries." He bent two fingers and pointed to his own eyes and then to Mason. "I'm watching you."

Mason mimed a yawn.

Julia held up her hand and spoke loudly. "The machine must have been broken. I blew point three five."

Silence. Respectful silence, because in this room, a unique measure of success was how stupid you'd been when you were drinking. Tripped and fell? Pfft, we've all done that. Tripped and fell with a steak in each hand because you broke into the zoo to feed the kitty cat? Props.

The point at which you're legally impaired by alcohol is point oh oh eight. Point three is blackout drunk. Getting behind the wheel of a car with enough alcohol in your system to blow a point three five was stupid to the point of, well, getting behind the wheel of a four-thousand-pound speeding hunk of metal too drunk to remember your own name.

Sherri's tone was as calm as ever. "Yes, well that explains why you're here."

"He arrested me."

"Again, not shocking."

"I got a little . . . feisty."

The people in the circle shifted again and exchanged glances. This story was shaping up and they were here for it.

Sherri merely smiled and raised her eyebrows encouragingly. Julia hesitated and then clearly reached some kind of decision. Again, this was common. The journey from "nothing to see here" to "complete revelation of private hell" often took less time than it takes to say. Of course, some visitors to that room never took the first step. Julia had walked in ready to keep it all to herself and now found herself scrambling to get it off her chest.